The Worst Meeting with Miss Holmes (12)
Lies. Yes, utter lies.
For Sherlock's sake? What brazen nonsense.
Of course, to the current Moriarty, the girl named Sherlock had long since become a special existence. But that was all she was. Unlike the still-childish Sherlock, who was swept up in childish emotions upon discovering her first love or someone she admired, Moriarty—no, at least he—felt no such thing. Coldly speaking, even Sherlock was just another tool to him. That's the kind of man he was. Unless someone punished him or passed judgment, he would remain that way until the end. Everything was merely for amusement. Yes, just a bit of stimulation and fun to alleviate his boredom.
Of course, Sherlock would benefit plenty in the process. But her feelings as a girl meant nothing to him; they didn't even reach him. On the contrary, if she came at him with hatred, seeking his destruction, it would undoubtedly provide him with yet another source of entertainment. He was a mathematician. Though limited to his profession, he prided himself on his professional ethics and strove to act as one. All propositions were meaningless in themselves. Unproven hypotheses held no value. Therefore, as a mathematician, Moriarty had to prove his hypothesis with his own body. Yes, proof.
Could she truly bring him pleasure? Could creating riddles, breaking them, and shattering them provide him with amusement? A simple proof.
'At this rate, I might not be so different from Professor Moriarty after all.'
He sneered. But he sneered precisely because he knew that thought was wrong. He was different from the Professor Moriarty in his memories of his past life. Would the professor in someone's creation have met Holmes from childhood, forged a bond, and turned her into a detective? Of course not. That's why he was different. He would create the opponent who would bring him the greatest pleasure with his own hands. And at the end, he could conclude everything with the thrill of destroying her as she faced him as a detective.
He was gripped by a powerful impulse. That's why he was envisioning even irrational thoughts and future plans that would never come to pass—things he would normally push away. But just as a mathematical system without axioms was meaningless, he now had to establish new axioms. Facts so self-evident they required no proof. The solid foundation that would become the roots of a mighty empire. And atop those facts, he had to test whether he could truly create everything.
'Maybe it's personal resentment.'
The thought suddenly struck him. Only then did Moriarty realize that he was a man utterly disinterested in everything, content to merely survive—yet at the same time arrogant and impulsively temperamental in various ways. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't planted the seed of it all. The gaze of her father, Pastor Holmes, had surely contributed to him reaching these thoughts and conclusions. In the plan he devised on the spot—one that would never be discovered—Pastor Holmes's tendencies played a major role.
A wife who frequently held tea times with various men to provoke her husband or foster suspicions of infidelity, and a husband quarreling with such a wife. It seemed their Pastor Holmes suffered from a mild case of morbid jealousy; lately, he had begun casting suspicious glances at Moriarty himself, unwittingly. It was unpleasant. For a worm like that—a dull, ordinary nothing—to dare look at him that way was infuriating. So this was self-defense. He was merely providing a bit of proof, nothing more.
Moriarty justified himself thus. Of course, he knew this mindset was the typical villain's rationale, as Sherlock had put it. He half-agreed, but the other half he couldn't accept. In the end, Moriarty was certain that even his dear disciple Sherlock would come to agree.
James Moriarty was smiling—a rare, genuine smile. Not a cynical smirk or faint grin. Anyone who knew him in this life might have been shocked to see him beaming like that. A sensitive soul might have frowned at the ugliness twisting beneath it. But he was alone in his room, and unfortunately, no one was there to notice.
He wiped the smile away, rose from his seat, and stepped outside. It was tea time, as luck would have it. Mrs. Holmes often half-formally invited him to join whenever she spotted him then. There was undoubtedly an intent to seek stimulation in the tedium of country life, but Moriarty had always refused, citing his research to avoid the hassle.
He could tell Mrs. Holmes wasn't some dreamer unable to distinguish reality from fantasy, pining for a romantic affair straight out of a novel. Sherlock's ordinary mother wasn't that foolish. But there was the vast age gap with her husband, whose differences and conflicts only grew with time; her own lingering youth thanks to her fairy blood; and the stifling rural boredom. Seeking stimulation in a monotonous life wasn't unique to Moriarty. Everyone did it to some degree. Mrs. Holmes was the type to subtly dream of a thrilling dalliance on that edge.
Moriarty briefly wondered if that's what had passed down to Sherlock, her love for incidents and detectives. Whether it was right or wrong didn't matter to him. It wouldn't matter anymore. He would simply use everything.
"Ah, Mr. Moriarty, how's the research going? I was just about to have tea—would you join me?"
"...I suppose I must today, Mrs. Holmes. I have something to discuss about Sherlock and Mycroft, as it happens."
Mrs. Holmes blinked in surprise at his acceptance, but Moriarty responded with a smile charming enough to win anyone's favor. Just enough to plant the right misconceptions. That way, no one could blame him. One day, he might rise to a position where no one could hold him accountable—but not yet. Still, it wouldn't be difficult. At least, he was certain of that. And the perfect pawns were already in place.
Sherlock and Mycroft were tricky pieces, no doubt, but Moriarty silently thanked the Lord he rarely invoked for the fact that they were still mere boy and girl. If the Lord knew, He might have thundered in rage at the impious blasphemy. But at least on this earth, the only being who could judge him wasn't the Lord. And that being was, unfortunately, still too young and unprepared.
Time passed smoothly. Feeling the sweltering summer heat, Moriarty soon found himself inside the Holmes siblings' secret hideout, observing Sherlock whining atop her brother's hammock.
If Mrs. Holmes saw this, she might have scolded her. The girl's behavior was hardly befitting an English lady. Of course, neither Sherlock nor Moriarty were bound by such stuffy British conventions.
"Mom nagged me again."
"Let me guess—you got your dress dirty?"
"Dresses tear when you're running around. Mom's so stuffy. I tell her if she's that worried, let me wear pants, but she says no. Why is she so unreasonable?"
"Your mother probably meant it differently."
Mrs. Holmes was a stuffy, ordinary woman. That she'd produced children like Sherlock and Mycroft was remarkable, but only that. Moriarty already knew she fretted over her tomboyish daughter's future. Mr. Holmes paid less heed, deeming the children still young—but even that irked her. Above all, Sherlock herself hated her mother's nagging. Naturally so. No child liked parental scolding, especially one who thought herself clever.
Moriarty smiled and spoke.
"Don't you hate hearing your mother's nagging, Sherlock?"
"Who likes it? Sometimes I just want to run away and do whatever! Adventure novels have that all the time."
Sherlock was still a child. She might act grown-up, but she leaned on fantasies now and then. Unfortunately, she was too young, innocent to the world's underbelly—the trash at society's bottom, humanity's malice—that a detective would face. So Moriarty offered a small piece of advice.
"How about using a red herring?"
"A smoked herring?"
The clever Sherlock knew her respected teacher wasn't speaking literally. It was a technique from his lessons, after all. Smoked herrings were used to deaden hounds' sense of smell during training. Escaping prisoners used them to evade tracker dogs. It had appeared in the magazine novels she loved. A literal distraction.
"If you're unhappy with your mother scolding you, why not use someone who can scold her? Say, Pastor Holmes."
"Hmm, but how?"
"A trick I used as a child. Just chatter to your father about things between you and your mother. Do it at meals. You're smart—you can act like you're just happily sharing your day with Daddy."
"Of course! I'm special, after all!"
Clever girl. Stimulated by the word, Sherlock puffed up and nodded. Moriarty's smile deepened.
"Anything will do. 'Today I learned this from Teacher Moriarty,' or 'At tea time, I ate cake while listening to Mom and Teacher Moriarty talk.' Trivial things like that."
"But will it work?"
"You never know with human psychology, Sherlock. It's truly special. Just as your mother nitpicks your little actions and scolds you, your father might gripe about her small behaviors—who knows? Naturally, she'll be too distracted to fuss over you."
Sherlock nodded at Moriarty's suggestion. The man before her was no longer family, but the most trustworthy adult in her world. Smarter than she could ever imagine. The perfect assistant for my future, she thought. So the girl believed.